Caught in the Rain
by teceraca
Summary: A sudden autumn shower leaves Minako and Akihiko with more than feet racing.


Once an Emperor makes up their mind about something, there is nothing doing about it. Especially if that Emperor is one Akihiko Sanada and the something involves strengthening and maintaining his domain. Lithe arms wave off protest after protest. _We have proper gear for low temp training_ and _Late October means_ _ **maybe**_ _a bit of snow_ and _it's fine out right now, you can't make excuses if you want to get stronger_ meant the usual race was on, no matter how dark the clouds loomed over the block.

So when ten minutes into their run the sky decides to squeeze out resentment in torrents and display a light show to prove that its spark was greater then he who might brazenly underestimate Mother Nature, spiteful laughter is the true reason Minako has trouble catching her breath. Sneakers _squeak squeak squeak_ on the asphalt in tune with her giggles, before enough puddles form that they **splash** and send droplets flying behind them - a messy afterthought of swift feet now moving with _purpose_ towards any type of roof.

With each thread that becomes soaked with cold autumn rain, however, the blood of the hydrophobe thickens to sludge. Minako is no fan of the coldest rains either, but the lightning excites her enough, and her chest is too swollen with the heat of exercise and warmth in the company of love to pay much mind (She doesn't know what his feelings are, but she's done denying her own). Like jumping into a pool, the sensation evens out now that they are surrounded with it, and **she** moves just fine. Not only, but for once she can _pass_ him. She rushes forward, turns back and kicks more liquid off to the side with a backwards jog. "How about that cold weather gear now, senpai? All it does is keep holding the rain against us!"

He rages at the shift to second place, but it's still not enough to crack the building ice imprisoning capillaries one by one. He snaps back at her taunts, "How was I supposed to know?!" Yet, the anger at his competition becomes as short lived as the ability to even face her. From somewhere stronger and unknown, some heat does muster within to flush cheeks and force him to keep direction by concentrating on his steps below. The rain holds clothes tight against both of them, indeed. Hair mats down, dripping and flopping about as legs carry the pair, and fabric drenches to cling to every inch of both their skins. Pants bunch up enough, and he's gone shirtless plenty of times before, but an unlined sports bra and thin, pastel yellow spandex does nothing to obscure certain visible reactions of a female body to the cold.

The shelter of the shrine thankfully comes soon enough. Akihiko stumbles into the sanctuary, muttering _obscenities_ and flailing about to ruffle dreaded liquid torture from his head and to wring it from as much surface area as possible, finally to collapse forward and absorb what little heat and relief dry hardwood could provide. Several moments go by before he realizes that the winner of race should have arrived first, yet is nowhere nearby. He glances out into the plaza, and becomes immediately transfixed.

She's _dancing_. In the middle of piercing, _needling_ pre-icicles, she's jumping and twirling to the beat of rat-a-tats on the buildings. She's swaying to the thunder and making the lightning her own personal **spotlight** as she traces invisible patterns into the stone. She could be a performer in the States on a stage in Las Vegas for all the beads and sequins of droplets that fall away from her _skin_ and _hair_ and a _body-tight costume_ at each flick of her wrist and twist of her hips, and for every **burst** of glitter that fountains up when her step touches down.

Of course, what's caught Akihiko's attention is not the glamour, but the _movement_. For all the training together, and for knowing the girl's own practice consists of a yoga routine, he's never really _looked_ before. It's clear that discipline has given the girl tone and grace, but as she dances there is no calculation. No anticipated swing and connect or precision of muscle under sinew over tendon. No hands or knuckles or knees stuck to form and point. She just... chooses a movement and then lets the rest of her body naturally flow with it; up, down and around. Pick a new joint, toss it away, see what it forces that which is above or below to do. Land. Do it again. In the midst of analysis, he's not quite sure why his heart is still beating so fast.

And then Minako finally stops and notices him sitting and watching. The line between feeling embarrassed or flattered by his gaze blurs, but before she can decide, pity overtakes it all. For all his intent and seemingly pleased eyes, the rest of his pores ooze 'drowned rat.' He pouts and slouches and fights back shivers, and she can't stand to see it. And her whole body is still racing. And wanting. And needing to make it better. And she's so full of spontaneous _joy_ in the energy of the storm and it needs to be _shared_. She advances with an intentional sashay towards the figure, who sitting on the shrine stairs is at perfect height. Without a word; without shame; without room for refute, she leans in to place her hands on the floor, one on either side of his hips, and kisses him. Surprisingly, she feels no resistance, and so continues shifting her weight forward, pressing into him, pressing _down,_ until he is flat on his back and she is straddling him over the edge of the stair, and his lips are locked underneath her.

And _him_. He tastes of the salt mixed of sweat and rain and the musky moisture in the air. And he smells of the cedar he's been laying on and the soil of the mud they kicked up. The rain still falling from her face and hair makes even more of a slip and slide as soft and sensitive skin plays together. And the clammyness and his awkward fumbling at it all doesn't lessen the fact that _he's finally letting her close_. She brushes her hands through wet hair, pretending like her only offer is to have them act as a pillow between his head and the ground, rather than relishing running her fingertips against the strands and sending tickles across his scalp.

And _her._ Suddenly that figure he's been analyzing, no **admiring** , is upon him before he's come to his senses. It douses him in yet _more_ cold water, but it doesn't even matter because she _burns_. The lips she presses to him are like coming home to warm bath, and he's ensnared in its radiant aura. He basks in it and it relaxes his muscles, which oblige to the request of her weight, and she provides more cover against frigid air as the moisture on her quickly begins turning to steam between them. She's warm, _so warm_ , and the curtain of her bangs and the ringing she causes in his ears blocks out the raging weather. Her lips part, and he laps her up in fever. His grip finds its way around her back and to her neck and he holds her to him as if she'll blow away in the storm like the blanket she's acting as. (He loses everyone else, after all…)

They're not quite sure how much time passes, caught up in a moment where they can each offer exactly what the other needs (enjoying the giving and the receiving), but eventually the storm fades and the rain sounds softer and it breaks them apart. Deep gulps and deep breaths and a wordless stare into each other's eyes says in small actions, _We'll either forget this ever happened or talk about it at a more rational time._

They huddle against the remaining wind and drizzle in silence, with no desire to move until it's totally stopped and they can head home. All thoughts of the rest of the race float away with the storm clouds. He doesn't want to admit he was wrong about the weather.

She's just glad he was.


End file.
